Personal Touch (Harlequin Blaze #484)

Personal Touch (Harlequin Blaze #484)

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by Lori Borrill

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When matchmaker Margot Roth is hired to find a date for the mother of a playboy millionaire, an erotic fling is the last thing on her mind. Well, maybe not the last thing. Clint Hilton is the sexiest man she's ever met, and she has to admit naughty things go through her mind when he looks at her with his sultry eyes.

But now that Clint is there to turn


When matchmaker Margot Roth is hired to find a date for the mother of a playboy millionaire, an erotic fling is the last thing on her mind. Well, maybe not the last thing. Clint Hilton is the sexiest man she's ever met, and she has to admit naughty things go through her mind when he looks at her with his sultry eyes.

But now that Clint is there to turn her fantasies into reality, Margot isn't sure if giving in to temptation is the best idea—even if he's determined to share his bed with her…or something more.

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Harlequin Blaze Series , #484
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When the fashion industry's hottest cover model flashed her signature do-me smile and stepped out of her black silk dress, Clint Hilton decided this was one sultry beauty that had definitely been worth waiting for.

If you could call three weeks a wait.

In Clint's book of sexual conquests, it was a millennium. A week more than he'd waited for any other woman and as long as he'd gone without sex in recent memory. But ever since the two had met in Vegas last month, he'd wanted a taste of this dish. And when she'd said she was leaving for Milan that night, she'd asked him for the one thing that trumped his need for fast and frequent flings.

She'd asked him to make a promise. Wait for her to get back from her trip.

Only three tiny little weeks. Her in Italy shooting perfume ads and him in Los Angeles, cooling his cock in the Pacific Ocean while he tried to remember how he let a woman put his sex life on hold.

He couldn't recall what had made him agree. Maybe it was the barely-there dress she'd worn that night. More likely the look in her eye that said she was worth it. But nonetheless, he'd honored his word. He had to. It was one of the few things he cherished more than having a good time.

She stepped to the edge of the pool, nothing covering that caramel skin except for the lacy red thong that topped her long, slender legs. Behind her, the view over West Hollywood nearly stretched to the ocean on this exceptionally clear night. But though he loved to relax on his terrace, tonight wouldn't be spent gazing at the city below. Tonight was payback time. Three long weeks of celibacy ending by the graces of one tall, stunning cover model named Rachelle.

No last name. "JustRachelle," she'd said.

Damn, if that wasn't sexy.

With that smoky look holding promise in her eyes, she tossed the last of her clothes, flung her hands over her head and dove into the pool. Her slender form moved fluidly through the water, inching toward him like a shark coming in for the kill. And as she neared, she stroked her hands up his legs and trailed her tongue along his shaft, breaking through the surface in a series of slippery kisses that hardened his cock and weakened his knees.

Their mouths met hot and deep, like they had back in Vegas, and he sucked in the scent of chlorine and expensive perfume. Her lips still held the essence of the Cosmopolitan she'd left on the terrace, and while her tongue did a number on his senses, she coiled her legs around his thighs and began to grind against his erection. It nearly broke him in half. He was too ready for this night. And as if to torture him more, she broke the kiss to whisper all the things she planned to do with him.

Sexy things. Naughty things. Things most women didn't care for and a gentleman never requested. But Rachelle wasn't looking for a gentleman tonight. She was here to prove that when it came to judging people, Clint Hilton was head of the class.

It was one of the skills he'd inherited from his father, what put him on top in his game and what had him darting through a casino full of beautiful women to that one special blonde by the bar. The one with the eyes of steam.

Clint could always spot the difference between real bedroom eyes and ones only learned for the camera. And Rachelle was the genuine article. She was the stuff wet dreams were made of, the kind of sex kitten that made suave men babble and bungling boys faint.

And tonight she was all his.

She glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "I see you've lit the fireplace in your bedroom. It looks cozy."

He had. Not that April in Los Angeles was especially chilly. He'd simply gone to painstaking efforts to make sure everything was perfect tonight, starting with dinner on the beach and ending with cocktails by the pool. The lighting was timed to take over when the sun finally set. Low jazz hummed throughout the house. The tables were set with flowers and fresh citrus and the bars had been fully restocked.

And, of course, he had condoms tucked around every corner, in arm's reach of any room, bed and surface that might spark Rachelle's fancy. Given some of the plans she just shared, Clint suspected that endeavor hadn't been in vain.

He lifted her high around his waist and began suckling her breast. "Would you like to move inside?"

Her quiet laugh held pure sin. "It might be safer. I'd hate to see you drown before I get my fill."

He moved his lips to the other breast. "I'm a very good swimmer."

Droplets of water slid from her hair and trickled down her chest, and he started a game of catching them with his tongue before they hit the water's edge.

"You know," she said, her breath getting heavy as he lifted her higher and moved his mouth down her waist, "you could probably get me started right here." Then with the swiftness of a cat, she pushed from his arms, lifted herself to the side of the pool and spread her thighs wide with invitation.

His heart thumped and his erection hardened. He cupped his hands around the pool's edge and moved between her legs. Through the chlorine and the sweet scent of star jasmine, the smell of sex filled his nostrils, putting an ache in his crotch as he began kissing her tender folds. She inched closer and spread wider, tossing her wet blond hair over her shoulder to stop the pat-pat-pat of droplets on her thighs. Then as he slowly circled her clit, she threw her head back and moaned.

"That's it, stud. Show me what you've got."

He blew hot breath on her nub and began the feast, licking her sensitive spots and then slipping his tongue into her core. Her muscles clenched and his cock twitched, the idea of getting inside that tight space nearly taking him to the edge. But it was far from time. She had too many plans—plans he really, really liked. So he worked hard to focus on her pleasure and keep his own in check.

Faster, he stroked. Her toes tapped against the water as her sex slickened and swelled. And with a low cry that started deep in her chest and echoed down the canyon, she came apart.

Her climax pushed his need to the point of pain. Even the cool water of the pool did nothing to temper the throb. And when she rose to her feet and told him to come inside, he nearly stumbled over himself as he pushed out of the pool and followed.

"I need your cock now," she casually remarked.

"At your service."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a long, greedy kiss, forcing himself to take his time and savor every moment. But just as he was about to break the kiss and lead her to his bedroom, the click of the gate and a sharp yelp from the side of the house startled them both to attention.

"Oh! I…"

Clint looked up. "Mom!"

Rachelle darted for a towel.

At the gate to the side yard, his mother stood agape dressed in tidy khaki chinos, a pale blue cardigan and pearl stud earrings. Brown leather sandals matched her purse, and she stood on the grass, her mouth silently bobbing, pointing a finger toward a hydrangea bush.

"Pom Pom," she finally uttered, referring to the dog he'd given her for Christmas.

Clint grabbed a towel of his own and stood next to Rachelle, whose flushed cheeks had morphed from arousal to embarrassment.

"What the hell are you doing home?" he asked. "You're supposed to be in Palm Springs."

"I—" his mother started, but before she could finish, he heard the flattened tone of his date.

"You live with your mother?"

"Huh?" He turned and looked at Rachelle. Her embarrassment was gone. So was that smoky bedroom look in her eyes, replaced by the bland and somewhat disbelieving look of a woman unimpressed.

"No, my mother lives with me."

She responded with an expression he didn't like.

"It's entirely different," he affirmed.

"If you say so." She headed toward her clothes.

"I'm serious. This is my house."

"And you share it with your mother."

"What's wrong with that?" he asked. But he already knew what was wrong with that. He'd been trying to get Jillian Hilton to move out pretty much ever since he'd offered to let her stay with him after his father died. The situation was supposed to be temporary, a month or two while she got over her grief and learned to live on her own. And yes, more than a year later she was still here. And yes, she was driving him nuts. But she was his mother. With his only brother being a news correspondent traveling through the Middle East, what was he supposed to do?

"Nothing's wrong with that," Rachelle said in a tone that said otherwise.

"Now, wait a minute. My mother's leaving." He turned a stern eye to Jillian to express that was an order, not a suggestion. She'd had plans. They'd arranged this. She was off for the weekend with her best friend, Marge, leaving him here— alone—for a night filled with lots of overdue sex.

But Rachelle simply kept walking, shaking her head as she gathered her purse and clothes.

"Yes," his mother said. "I am leaving. I just—Pom Pom, no!" She rushed to the side of the hill but it was too late. Pom Pom, his mother's precious Pomeranian and Clint's royal pain in the ass, had darted down the hill. And being that the dog had a mind of its own, Clint knew it wasn't coming back any time soon.

Tying his towel tightly around his waist, he stepped toward the edge of the hill, hoping the dog might be within reach, but the puffed-up furball had crept under a bush. "Great." He turned back to his mother. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I am leaving," his mother tried, but Rachelle had already pulled out her phone and was calling a cab.

He stepped back to his date. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry. This isn't going to work at all."

His mother attempted to call her dog.

"What isn't going to work?" he asked, becoming slightly annoyed by the impatient look on her face. "I told you, my mother is leaving."

Rachelle snorted, snapped her phone closed and tucked it in her purse. "I thought you were a little moreindependent?" Then she began walking toward the house, holding her clothes in her hand and the towel around her chest. "Really, Clint. If I'd known you were still tied to the apron strings, I wouldn't have wasted my time."

Okay, now he was pissed.

"Apron strings?"

His mother gasped. "My son is no such thing!"

Nice gesture, but his mom defending him right now was definitely bad timing.

"Thanks for dinner. I'll have a car send your towel back later," Rachelle said.

"Really, I'm sorry," his mother tried, but Clint was one step past apologies.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched with amazement as Rachelle hurried to the door. "You've got to be kidding."

Rachelle simply looked at Jillian, then back at him. "You two enjoy your evening."

"Wait—" Jillian attempted, but Clint shot up a hand. He wasn't sure who he was angrier with, his mom for coming home when she knew he had a date, or Rachelle for being so quick to dash off—after he'd waited three weeks for her.

Right now it was a toss-up, though Mom would surely win the bonus round if he had to go traipsing through scrub brush chasing after the damn dog.

Jillian stood with her mouth open, watching Rachelle disappear into the house on her way to the front door.

"Well, now that you've ruined my evening, would you finally answer my question?" he growled. "You were supposed to have left with Marge hours ago."

When they heard the distant slam of the front door, she snapped her mouth shut and turned her eyes to him. All signs of remorse were gone; instead, his mother looked aghast.

"Well," she huffed. "If that's all it takes to ruin an evening, what does she do on a bad date? Pull out an Uzi and start firing?"

"Why are you here?"

She clamped her hands to her hips. "Honestly, Clint, I don't know where you find these women. Do you actually think you can have a relationship with someone like that?"

He hadn't been looking for a relationship. He just wanted some really hot sex. But instead of pointing that out, he opted to skip to the obvious.

"You embarrassed the hell out of her—out of us. Do you have any idea what you walked in on?"

"The same thing that goes on here every time I leave for the weekend. And they're all the same, shallow and self-centered. Did your father and I set such a horrible example that you can't even consider dating a woman who might actually make a good wife?"

"You and Dad were great." And it was true. His parents had a wonderful marriage. Which was what had devastated his mother so when his father died. They'd been perfect for each other. Like peas and carrots. And someday, Clint would love to have what they had. He just wasn't in a hurry.

"Then why can't you bring home someone kind and intelligent for a change?"

His eyes narrowed. "You keep avoiding my question. What happened to your weekend in Palm Springs?"

His mother let out a breath and plopped down in one of the stuffed chairs at the covered end of the terrace. "Marge and I had a difference of opinion."

"You got in a fight." What a shock. It had been happening since the two women had met back in grade school.

He should have known.

"She wanted to bring a date! It was supposed to be the two of us, and at the last minute, she announced she was bringing some guy named Arnie along."

Clint stepped to the bar he kept stocked in the outdoor kitchen and poured himself two fingers of scotch. It was looking as though his entire weekend was about to be shot.

"And the worst of it all," his mother went on. "Do you know where she found this man?"

Knowing Marge, it could have been anywhere. The woman was on her fourth divorce. Or was it five?

He shrugged.

"A dating service!"

"What's wrong with a dating service?"

That blanched look returned to her face. "It's the final stage of desperation, that's what. You know those places are only for social misfits."

"Mom, I hardly think that's fair. Lots of people use dating services these days—" He stopped and stared. "Wait a minute. Did you tell her that?"

"Of course. She's my friend. If I don't look out for her, who will? She should appreciate my candor instead of swearing me out of her life."

Meet the Author

Raised in the Pacific Northwest, Lori Borrill moved to the Bay Area shortly after high school and has been a transplant Californian ever since. By day, she's a data analyst and when she's not working or writing, she's at the baseball field playing proud parent to her teenage son with her husband of more than 20 years.  She's also the collector of hobbies and loves gardening, photography, scrapbooking and cooking.  For more information, visit her website at

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Personal Touch (Harlequin Blaze #484) 3.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
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